The room was large, or at least it seemed that way from his tiny height, lying in Aurora’s lap.
The ceiling was high, supported by thick beams of dark wood, a shade reminiscent of mahogany or walnut, but with grain patterns he had never seen before, silver veins that shimmered whenever candlelight struck them at the right angle.
The walls were made of the same material, polished by time and use, with small cracks that revealed the building’s age. A stone fireplace occupied an entire wall, crackling softly and casting dancing shadows throughout the room.
The fire was not large, perhaps to avoid overheating the room, but it was constant and comforting.
Simple wooden furniture filled the space, a low dresser against the opposite wall, and a rocking chair near the window.
He could not see through the window. There was a small table beside the bed, where clay bowls rested alongside bloodstained cloths and bundles of dried herbs tied together.
The scent of those herbs, unlike anything that existed in his memory, mixed with the smell of smoke and the musky odor of childbirth.
Everyone’s clothes were strange.
His mother wore a simple white linen nightgown, but with delicate embroidery on the cuffs, tiny colored stitches forming flowers or stars, he could not tell which.
His father wore a dark tunic over tight leather trousers.
And on his father’s belt...
Lukas blinked, thinking his eyes had deceived him.
A sword.
The man carried a sword at his waist.
It was not a decorative or ceremonial sword. He could see the wear on the leather grip, the scratches along the metal scabbard, and the way the weapon’s weight pulled the belt slightly to one side.
It was a real weapon. A used weapon. Perhaps even a weapon that had already killed.
’Who carries a sword inside their own house?’
He looked at the young man, he had a sword hanging from his back. The little girl carried nothing except a small silver amulet hanging around her neck.
’This isn’t normal. This isn’t... it’s not like the places I’m used to...’
The thought abruptly stopped.
’The places I... what places?’
He tried to hold onto that thought, to that feeling that there had been other places, other points of reference.
But the fog in his mind was thick, and his thoughts slipped away like fish between his fingers.
He knew this house was not like the houses he knew, but what houses did he know? He knew the clothes were strange, but compared to what?
The truth began to take shape in his consciousness, still hazy, still difficult to accept. More an intuition than a fully formed thought.
’I’m not from here.’
’I’m not... just a baby.’
There had been something before. But what? Where? Who had he been?
The questions piled up, and no answers came. Only that frustrating sensation that the answers were there somewhere, hidden beneath an impenetrable fog.
Aurora stroked his cheek with her index finger. The touch was warm and gentle. She looked at him for a long moment, her violet eyes shining with an emotion he could not fully name.
"I’ve decided," she said, her voice filled with immense tenderness but also unwavering certainty.
"Your name will be Lukas. Lukas Dmond!"
The instant the name left her lips, the entire world split in two.
It was not a metaphor. At least, not to Lukas’s mind.
It was as if a heated blade had sliced through the dense fog surrounding his consciousness, and everything that had been hidden, everything he was, everything he had lived through, burst forth like water from a shattered dam.
The memories came in waves.
...
First, the sound of rain.
He was standing on a wet sidewalk, slippery cobblestones gleaming beneath the yellow glow of streetlamps.
A backpack weighed on his shoulders, stuffed with books and notebooks. The sky was gray and heavy, and thick raindrops struck his face. He was running. He was late. The bus stop was two blocks away.
’Where am I going? Why am I running?’
The image changed.
A seven-year-old boy sat on a metal bed in a cramped room, holding a letter with both hands.
The letter was crumpled, stained with tears.
The words "rare disease," "no effective treatment," and "we deeply regret" danced before his eyes, but he could barely read them.
He was crying so hard that his vision blurred. Beside him sat an old, worn teddy bear, the only thing he had inherited from his parents.
Then came the orphanage.
The hard bed, the silence of the nights, the loneliness that never completely faded. The other children laughed in the courtyard while he remained in the library, reading borrowed books.
The volunteers who came and went, always wearing the same look of pity. The families who visited him, spoke with him, and promised to return never appeared again.
’Stop. This hurts.’
But memories did not ask permission.
At eight years old, there was a trip to the zoo. An end-of-year excursion. He remembered standing for hours in front of the lion enclosure, mesmerized by the elegance of those creatures.
While the other children ran toward the souvenir shop or begged for ice cream, he stayed there, captivated, observing every movement, every interaction between the animals.
An elderly guide with graying hair named Marta approached him and asked,
"You like animals, kid?"
"Yes. I really do." Lukas exclaimed.
Marta widened her eyes in surprise. From that day onward, she began bringing him books. Biology books and others as well all focused on animals. He devoured every one of them.
At eighteen years old, the acceptance letter to the Faculty of Zoology. He cried alone in his orphanage room, holding the paper with trembling hands.
"Mom... Dad... I did it. I’m on the path to making my dream come true. Someday I’ll have a famous zoo."
Then came the morning, the day of his first class.
He was late. His alarm had not gone off, the bus had been delayed, and the rain threatened to ruin his only decent pair of shoes.
He ran along the wet sidewalk, his backpack full of books bouncing against his back. The bus was there, waiting at the stop, its doors open.
He climbed the slippery steps, swiped his transit card, and thanked the driver. The bus was crowded, packed with people, tired faces, and eyes lost in phones or staring through fogged windows.
He squeezed toward the back, gripping a metal handrail, trying not to step on anyone’s feet.
The bus pulled away.
The crash.
It was not exactly a sound. It was a sensation. As if the entire world had been made of glass and someone had dropped it.
The floor vanished beneath his feet. Bodies flew around him in slow motion. He saw the face of an elderly woman twisted in terror, saw a teenager hurled against the ceiling, and saw the driver desperately trying to turn the wheel.
His backpack slipped from his shoulders.
Then came the final impact.
And then... nothing.
Darkness.
Not emptiness, not eternal silence. Just a pause. An interval between one breath and the next. Between the end of one song and the beginning of another.
And now, this place. This body. This family.